525,600
by AngolMoaChan
Summary: Ordinary snapshots of people with not-so-ordinary lives. Minutes in a year, moments in life, journeys to share. First up, Spamano!
1. Minutes

**525,600 **

a series of drabbles by _AngolMoaChan_

_minutes—Spamano_

**in short, I wanted to write a combination of a bunch of pairings based on a list of pretty spiffy quotes. Check them out! :D**

"_His mother should have thrown him away and kept the stork." _

–_Mae West_

Romano Vargas was absolutely the worst-behaved maid/child/_general being _Spain had ever met in his entire life. Sometimes he personally thought that the _Aztecs _behaved better than he did. Romano swore, he broke things, he never cleaned (like he was supposed to), he never did…well anything, besides demand tomatoes and complain at him.

France told him to give him away. Prussia agreed. Yet, he couldn't keep away from the little brat; something in his actions made Spain want to protect him from anything that ever got in his way. And when Romano tried to "protect him" from the German soldiers that came to collect…Antonio Carriedo realized that he loved Romano a lot more than he thought.

Each minute that went by, Romano grew stronger, bigger, lankier. And as each second passed, Antonio's love for him bloomed into something completely different.

And on his 21st birthday, when Antonio was still 25 and Romano would probably never age another year, when his nation was stable and united and Spain's nation was free of war, he got down on one knee—no more maybes or second choices or _why would you keep him, he's an annoyance—_and opened up the velvet box with a few words that changed their lives forever; but at the same time didn't change them at all.

"_Lovino Vargas. Will you marry me?"_

And the minutes that ticked by after that are the ones Antonio will remember for the rest of his life.


	2. Moments So Dear

**525,600**

_drabbles by AngolMoaChan_

_2.) moments so dear—france/Canada_

"_It is dreams that will survive, for a dream is immortal"_

–_Lady Avalon_

In his dreams Francis swears he'd never go to anyone else again, and in his dreams he means it.

In Matthew's dreams, France lavishes him and only him—tells him he's not worthless, tells him he's better than his brother, tells him that _yes, Mathieu, I can see you, and I will never leave you. _

Matthew never wants to wake up from those dreams.

But sometimes those mornings when he does wake up and roll over, bleary eyed and blind, and sees the catlike-stretched form of Francis beside him, his arm draped over the Canadian's waist, Matthew has to wonder if those dreams are reality. And if they are—if they are and Francis won't run off laughing and groping whoever runs into his path, and if he rolls over and whispers _good morning, Mathieu, mon cher, _and his lips press against his morningbreath own—then Matthew thinks he could live with being in a dream world for just a little while longer.

"


	3. How Do You Measure

**525,600**

_drabbles by AngolMoaChan_

_how do you measure—us/uk_

_Heroes are often the most ordinary of men._

_-Henry David Thoreau_

It was a cat of all things, a bloody _cat. _Alfred—that gitface, ninny, bloody _retarded _Yank—had shimmied up the trunk of one of the biggest trees in London like a monkey of all things, perched precariously on a thin branch as he pounded his chest and proclaimed, "Don't worry, kitty! Your _hero _is here to save you!"

Arthur stood below, staring up at the spectacle and shoving his hands in his pockets. Alfred had insisted on saving the cat because—because god _knows _why, really, he can't understand America's fascination with putting himself in harm's way. Rolling his eyes, he refocused on the scene above him. Alfred was crowing in victory, holding the kitten to his chest, even as it scratched at his shirt and face. The poor thing was terrified, that much he could tell—

And Arthur couldn't help but flash back, to the tiny nation against his chest, his eyes shut, baby lashes fluttering like butterfly wings against his cheeks, tufts of blonde hair waving in the breeze as he swore to protect him and never let him be scared of anything, of _anyone, _ever again.

And suddenly he understood.

As Alfred set the cat down on the ground, ruffling the hair of a tearful little girl, who thanked him and hugged his legs, Arthur walked over and casually, oh so casually, slipped his hand into the American's. Alfred didn't even react, just a twitch of a grin as he saluted the little girl and turned to the Brit beside him. "Heroic, wasn't it?"

Arthur sighed, rolling his eyes; he looked up at Alfred with the slightest smile on his face. "Yes, you gitface. Heroic indeed."


	4. Measure a Year?

**525,600 **

_drabbles by AngolMoaChan_

_4.) measure a year—us/uk_

"Oh, loneliness and cheeseburgers are a dangerous mix…"

_-Matt Groening_

Unwrap. Chomp. Swallow. Repeat.

Alfred F Jones stared out at the landscape before him, curling his toes in his boots. Snow cascaded down around his Virginia home, the white powder never seeming to let up in it's relentless job of ruining the hero's day. Today was December 19th. He was supposed to be in London. In _London. _

Alfred unwrapped another cheeseburger, chewing on it with furrowed brows. Now, the American loved his country, hell he loved it pretty much more than anything in the world (that is besides McDonalds and Coke and maybepossibly Arthur?)—but dammit, it was Christmas.

You're supposed to spend Christmas with someone you love, Japan had said, in that sweet, gentle voice of his, his own fingers curled lightly around the sleeping, curly haired nation beside him—Greece of course—staring up at Alfred with blank, unreadable eyes.

Why the hell, then, was he stuck at home? Matt wasn't even here—he called and said something about spending Christmas in Paris, then hung up faster than the American could even get a word out. He should be _in London, with Arthur, calling him Eyebrows and drinking coffee and snuggling and _away from his house. Even the beautiful Virginia landscape couldn't keep him occupied, even Tony's video games left him bored to tears.

There was a sudden loud bang on the door. Alfred jumped, turning around. Who the hell would visit him at this hour in the morning, in the snow? Still, he walked to his doorway, lethargic, and opened it—only to be met with a blast of snow and a figure practically throwing itself at his chest. "Oof—"

"Bloody _hell, _the flight getting over here was absolutely atrocious and I'm _terribly _sorry I'm late but goddamn, Alfred, you need to get better transportation systems!"

The words went in one ear and out the other. Now pushed away from Alfred, shutting the door behind him with some effort and brushing off his stuffy black coat and rather funny looking forest green ear-flap hat was none other than the British nation himself.

"England." America breathed, almost afraid to say it. Arthur stared at him, one eyebrow raised, his hands on his hips.

"It's Christmas, stupid. Now, just because we aren't in London doesn't mean that we're watching your stupid Christmas programs, we are watching the Queen's address and that's fi—"

And Arthur was cut off as the American enveloped him in a hug—he smelled like spice and sawdust and something so _Alfred_—that he allowed himself to be silenced without much protest. Breathe in, breathe out.

"…thanks for comin', old man."

Beside him, a half-eaten hamburger lay abandoned on the floor.


	5. In Daylights

**525, 600**

_Drabbles by AngolMoaChan_

_5. in daylights_

_Le ore del mattino hanno l'oro in bocca._

_The hours of the morning are most precious._

_~Italian proverb_

Waking up beside Antonio is one of Romano's favorite parts of the day. He'd never, ever tell him that out loud—not in a million years because that would be unmanly and that three letter word that scorned his countrymen fit it better than anything else—but the Italian secretly enjoys waking up before the lazy Spaniard and rolling over to look at him. It's his own personal routine. They end up on different sides of the bed, usually, what with Antonio rolling around and Lovino demanding his space, but in the morning, Lovino is quick to lift one of the Spaniard's heavy arms and squeeze into the space between them, head pressed against his tan chest. He can hear Spain's heart—_thumpa-thumpa-thumpa,_ nice and steady—underneath his ear, and it makes him feel safe.

Safe. That was a word he used around Spain more than he'd like to admit.

The Italian rolls over and steals a glance at his former boss; his face is calm in the morning sunshine, lashes fluttering as he snores softly. And Lovino leans forward, face red as anything, and presses a kiss to his lips before hurriedly scooching away from the Spaniard's chest. "Hey, hey. I love you, bastard, dammit. You better know that. Like…a lot. So you better not fucking waste it, okay? And…"

His words are barely mumbled, though, and he quickly lets his typical scowl slide onto his face with a huff and a heavy blush before he lets loose a headbutt to Antonio's stomach. "OI! Wake up already!"

If Lovino had looked before he hit, he would have seen Antonio smile. Lovino may have his secret, whispered love confessions in the sun, but Antonio had his--he heard them.


End file.
